


Rest Your Weary Head

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Injury Recovery, M/M, Paranoid Will Graham, Post-Canon, Post-Fall (Hannibal)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Hannibal, to his credit, isn't completely bedbound. He won't let himself be. But he is much worse off than Will, and can't do anything as simple as stand for any prolonged length of time, much less join him in the markets, or help around the house. Will doesn't seem to mind. If Hannibal didn't know any better, he'd say he enjoyed having Hannibal at his mercy.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 46
Kudos: 419





	Rest Your Weary Head

**Author's Note:**

> A little post-fall soft moment in honor of the TWOTL anniversary.   
> I wanted to call it 'Lay Your Weary Head to Rest' but my SPN origins wouldn't let me lmao  
> Enjoy!

They adjusted to sharing a bed rather quickly. As a matter of necessity, at first, cramped together in the belly of their little boat as they drifted without direction across the Atlantic, and then South, once Will was able to take over navigation.

They end up, of all places, in Greece. Hannibal isn't sure if Will chose it, or if they happened to be heading that way and he didn't care to change direction, but a month after their fall into the Bay, Will brings their boat to a halt on the shores of Rhodes.

Hannibal is used to being the agent of his own decisions. Not so, with Will. Hannibal is much more severely injured than he is – he took the brunt of the concussive force by choice, and was shot beforehand, after all – and so Will has to do things like haul up their supplies and source money for a villa and make friendly with the neighbors.

Which he does with startling ease. Hannibal expected Will to remain standoffish and, well, reclusive. At least around strangers, leaving Hannibal to shoulder most of the burden of the social aspect. But no, Will charms his way into getting an older couple to lease them an apartment on the second floor of a villa without anything as unnecessary as a credit check, in exchange for a hearty deposit. He learns the layout of the local village and figures out where to go to buy groceries, and leaves for hours at a time, walking slow due to his limp but much easier than Hannibal does, and he's _cooking_ for them both, too.

Hannibal, to his credit, isn't completely bedbound. He won't let himself be. But he is much worse off than Will, and can't do anything as simple as stand for any prolonged length of time, much less join him in the markets, or help around the house.

Will doesn't seem to mind. If Hannibal didn't know any better, he'd say he enjoyed having Hannibal at his mercy.

He probably does, knowing better or not.

Hannibal entertains himself with the library that came with the apartment. There are two bookshelves near the sliding glass doors that lead to the balcony, mostly piled with various books on tourism and local landmarks. Clearly the owners are used to foreigners coming in and making themselves at home while they entertain themselves at local tourist traps. Occasionally, Will returns with something that he thinks Hannibal might like, a book on the history of Rhodes, or Ephesus, across the sea in Turkey, or anything he thinks Hannibal might enjoy reading about.

It feels like Will is a stray animal that has finally found a forever home. He's eager to win Hannibal's favor, keep him entertained. Perhaps he fears what Hannibal might do if he grew bored. Hannibal is, at this moment, no match for him in a fight, but Will knows better than most that Hannibal's weapons are not purely physical.

He looks up, hearing the front door open and close, the familiar rustle of bags as Will limps his way inside and kicks the door shut behind him. Hannibal watches, from his place in the corner of the room, in a thick, comfortable armchair that's worn down to the pleather base, as Will trudges his way through the living room and into the kitchen. Despite the discomfort plainly evident on his face, he doesn't ask Hannibal for help.

Hannibal's lips purse, and he closes the book he had been reading on Ephesus, setting it to one side. Gingerly, he pushes himself to his feet, wincing as his sore hip protests sudden movement after so long in one position. Will is still in the kitchen, unpacking the bags and collapsing them once they're empty, forming a neat stack.

Hannibal observes him from the threshold. Despite the ease with which Will has taken over most of their social interactions, and handling things like rent and money and groceries, he seems oddly manic whenever it's just the two of them alone. As though there is too much energy, thrumming beneath his skin, without a proper outlet.

He knows Will knows he's being watched. It's impossible, not just for the cramped environment, but Hannibal knows the second Will's eyes land on him, and feels the chill when they move away. It's impossible to think Will doesn't sense that kind of thing too.

"Can I help with anything?" he finally asks, when the last of the bags are stacked up and Will is staring at his purchases as though suddenly unsure what to do with them.

Will's eyes lift, and meet his. His hair, usually wild and thick, is even more so since moving here. Rhodes has a constant breeze coming from the shore that leaves salt behind and encourages constant motion of the hands to push it out of Will's face. Will stares at him like a wild animal has just invaded his territory and he's not yet sure if it can be tamed with meat.

He presses his lips together, and straightens, lifting his chin. His shoulders, already so thoroughly abused, roll and stiffen as he sucks in a breath through his teeth, undoubtedly causing one of his many injuries to flare up. "Are you hungry?" he asks.

Hannibal smiles. "If you're offering."

Will stares at him a moment longer, and then rolls his eyes. "Then no," he replies, brow arching. "I can cook myself."

"I know you can," Hannibal replies, and steps over the threshold, invading the kitchen. He has just as much a right to be here as Will, after all. Will doesn't break his gaze as Hannibal approaches him and comes to a halt beside him, less than lunging distance apart. "You've proven remarkably capable at handling our affairs since we arrived."

"Since before then," Will counters, smiling. "And is it that remarkable?"

"Yes, in that I want to remark upon it," Hannibal says. Will huffs. "It's not necessary, you know."

"What isn't?"

"Overcompensating."

Will's brow furrows. "You think I'm overcompensating?" he asks. He sounds irritated more than anything else.

"Aren't you?"

Will turns away, shaking his head. "You shouldn't be on your feet so much," he says.

"Consistent physical exertion is key for a speedy recovery," Hannibal reminds him. He takes a step closer when Will steps away, not letting the distance grow between them. Will's jaw clenches, and he glares down at the counter and the groceries as though their presence personally offends him.

"I'm not letting you fuck up all my hard work," Will snaps. Hannibal smiles, thinking back to when they were on the boat, Will combining his homegrown mercenary method of tending to wounds, that he honed in his rough childhood, with Hannibal talking him through the more complicated things through a haze of painkillers. It was hard work, a lot of hard work. Frankly Hannibal wonders how they survived at all. By all rights, they shouldn't have.

"Nor you, mine," Hannibal says, instead of addressing that point. Will's eyes lift, and he presses his lips together. "I can see you're in pain, Will. Rest. I can cook tonight."

Will's nostrils flare. He shifts his weight and winces so badly his entire face twists with it, a sheen of sweat on his forehead that can't be blamed on the heat in their apartment.

Hannibal sighs. "Perhaps a compromise," he says, taking another step closer. "We can order delivery."

"Delivery?" Will echoes, scoffs. "Delivery."

Hannibal hums, and instead of answering, sets about putting away the groceries before the cold things spoil. Will watches him, Hannibal can feel the warmth of his gaze on his shoulders, the back of his neck. Lingering down to the slight bulge of bandages he still wears around the gunshot wound. The small hesitance in his stride and the ache in his shoulders as he reaches to the taller shelves.

Finally, Will sighs. "Fine," he says gently. "Delivery. What are you in the mood for?"

"I'm sure you'll find something," Hannibal replies. He turns, to see Will hasn't moved. He approaches, and Will doesn't move away from him. They long ago moved past the point where performative distancing was expected. Will's fingers have been inside Hannibal, sewing him up, and Hannibal has mapped every inch of Will's broken bones and torn muscles. They still share a bed; the apartment is small. At this point it seems ridiculous to pretend that they are not settled by each other's touch.

And Will proves his point, by closing his eyes and letting his cheek rest on Hannibal's shoulder, as Hannibal smooths the little sweaty hairs from the side of his face, tucking them behind his ear. "Come sit with me," he coaxes, and Will nods, and lets Hannibal lead him into the living room.

Their living room is small, with a single large armchair Hannibal normally sits in, and a little loveseat. He leads Will to that, and they sit down together, Will awkwardly leaning to save his injured hip, Hannibal happily being his support as Will puts his cheek to Hannibal's shoulder and makes himself comfortable. Hannibal's fingers rub over Will's far shoulder, absently working his thumb over the knots he finds as Will closes his eyes, breathing through the pain. The scent of it is not unfamiliar to Hannibal, and fills his lungs.

Hannibal rests his chin on the top of Will's head, content to hold him as Will uncoils from the trials of the day. Hannibal knows it wears on him, even though he insists on being the more sociable one. It is, in his mind, a manifestation of Will's possessiveness and hypervigilance; how can he know if they are safe if he is not constantly patrolling the perimeter? His eyes are wary, senses sharpened for any lingering look, any shadow where there should not be one.

"Thank you," Will murmurs sleepily, when Hannibal has finished working out one particularly stubborn knot in his shoulder. He sighs, and lifts his head, meeting Hannibal's eyes. His hand is on Hannibal's stomach, supporting himself, as Hannibal's hand slides down his flank and he gently massages Will's hip. Even through Will's clothes, he can feel the heat of the damaged joint, flared and protesting such constant use.

Hannibal smiles, and kisses Will's cheek. "You ought to rest," he says.

Will's upper lip curls back. But he must be truly exhausted, because instead of protesting, his lashes dip in a show of surrender, and he sighs, and nods once. Hannibal moves them, so he's lying down on the loveseat, one foot resting on the armrest and his back against the other. Will settles on him, cheek on his chest, arm cradling Hannibal's other leg as it curls around his waist, his other arm wrapped beneath Hannibal's back. He curls his legs up and tucks them into the cushions, a gesture so juvenile and sweet. It takes Hannibal's breath away, when Will allows himself to be vulnerable.

He pets Will's hair from his face, and his neck, rubbing the sore muscles with careful, skilled fingers as Will goes lax and heavy on top of him. It's rare to catch Will in a moment of pure stillness – even when they go to sleep, Will tosses and turns, never entirely still.

Will stirs, a moment later, and lifts his head. "You're not actually hungry, are you?"

Hannibal shakes his head.

Will sighs, and lowers his head again. "Figures." Hannibal makes a vague sound, still petting through his hair. "I wouldn't have gone out – we didn't need the food."

"It never hurts to have a full pantry," Hannibal replies mildly. Will hums, resting his cheek on Hannibal's chest again, ear against his heartbeat. He does that often, as though afraid it will stop beating if he's not listening to it.

"Guess if it'll keep you chained up a little longer," he murmurs. Hannibal presses his lips together, hiding a smile. He lifts his head, awkwardly curling until he can kiss Will's hair, and Will sighs again, his eyes closed, cheeks flushed as he absorbs Hannibal's body heat. His knuckles curl beneath Hannibal's back, idly rubbing at points of tension when he finds them, mindful of Hannibal's injuries.

"Sleep, Will," Hannibal coaxes, lying back again. "I can keep watch."

Will makes a sleepy noise, too close to dreamland to protest. Hannibal catalogues each piece of him as he goes lax, until even his hand stops moving, and his fingers uncurl. He smiles, putting his eyes on the door, and settles down to rest.


End file.
